Private Dancer. Kimberly Dean

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      Not a fantasy.

      She shifted her weight, trying to bring some relief to her aching feet. She couldn’t help it. She had an affinity for dancers. She was just trying to understand.

      What would it be like? she wondered.

      She stared unblinkingly at the club across the street as those around her yelled at cars stopped at the light. What would it be like to work in such a place? To dance without clothes? To perform for the specific purpose of titillating those who looked at you?

      Her body tingled, wrapped up in the idea, but her brain just couldn’t comprehend. It was just so foreign to her, so dirty. She’d danced nearly all her life. She understood what it was to portray emotion through dance, to tell a story. The stories they were telling at the Satin Club, though … those tales were suited for the deep of night, in the privacy of a bedroom. What were they thinking, putting them out there on display for everyone to see?

      It was disturbing and shocking – and, admittedly, a bit intriguing.

      ‘Turn away from the devil!’

      Alicia stepped further away from her father. The noise was just too loud. Instead of screaming at the club, shouldn’t they be trying to talk with the people inside? To explain the dangerous path they were on? Her church was protesting against this place for a reason. How did those women feel about what they did? Did they hate it? Were they yearning for a better life and holier pursuits?

      Or did they do it because it felt good?

      ‘There they are!’ someone behind her gasped.

      ‘The devil rears its ugly head.’

      Rapid-fire words started coming through the speakers. All around her, Alicia felt the energy of the crowd of protestors surge. She looked around, trying to figure out what was going on.

      Her eyes widened when she realised that the door to the Satin Club had opened and two imposing men had walked out of it. Men in suits seemed to flock to this place, but these two were different. Their clothing might be expensive and impeccably cut, but it did nothing to civilise the men wearing it. The one on the left was shorter and leaner, with the body of a fighter. And the nose, she thought as he slipped on a pair of sunglasses. For all his ruggedness, he wore an air of gentility, a hard-won polish of money and power. The other did not. Big, muscled and intense, what you saw was what you got. And the big man was unhappy.

      Sebastian Crowe and Remy Hunt, owner and operations manager of the Satin Club.

      Her sore toes began tapping nervously against the sidewalk. She knew the two men on sight and she instinctively stepped further into the shade of an elm tree. As bad as it had been before, the conflict between her church and the Satin Club had just become more real.

      And more dangerous.

      Heaven help them.

      ***

      Bas strode across the parking lot with Remy at his side, but his gaze was centred strictly on the crowd gathered across the street. Enough was enough. He’d been trying to turn the other cheek, but the assholes had upgraded from a megaphone to a speaker system. It was time to settle this.

      ‘I’m sick of these religious nuts.’ Remy cracked his knuckles, but his hands clenched right back into fists. ‘Do we stand outside their church yelling at them on Sunday mornings?’

      ‘They think they’re saving our souls.’

      ‘My soul is just fine. They’re the ones who need to “do unto others”.’

      The corners of Bas’s mouth curled. ‘The Golden Rule? Really?’

      ‘Even my grandmother would want their heads. This isn’t spreading God’s word. This is harassment.’

      It was, but there was also that tricky business about freedom of expression and the right to assemble.

      It was mid-afternoon. The Satin Club opened their doors early for those white-collar good-ole-boys who still liked to conduct business the old-fashioned way – with booze flowing and skin flashing – but Remy was right. This irritant wasn’t just a nuisance anymore. It was beginning to affect business, not only for them but for their neighbours. Hetty from the 24-hour diner next door had already called to voice her complaints. It was time to do more than sit back and take the high road.

      Besides, he and Remy had always been more comfortable on the back alleyways, anyway.

      Bas’s eyes narrowed. They’d been watching the protestors from Sunlight Epiphany Church ever since they’d shown up a week ago. Reverend Harold Wheeler was the loud-mouthed leader of the bunch. From what they’d been able to gather, the rabble-rouser had moved to town from Birmingham a few years ago after his former congregation had found him elbow-deep in the collections plate. His new followers either had forgiven that little discretion or didn’t know about it.

      The decibel level rose when the crowd saw them, and Bas’s jaw hardened. He had nothing against religion – until it was used against him. Then, he wasn’t afraid to fight back.

      And fight dirty.

      His attention moved over the angry bystanders. As always, it settled on one trim figure off to the side – a feminine figure with soft, curling brown hair and a sweet innocent face – a silent figure with a body that screamed.

      ‘What did you learn about the angel?’

      ‘Her name is Alicia Wheeler.’

      The way his operations manager drew it out, it sounded like something he’d like to taste. And savour. And lick all over again.

      Didn’t they both?

      ‘The reverend’s daughter and, as luck would have it, a dancer.’

      Bas stared at her. Sweet little Leesha was a knockout. She wore boring, prim clothes and flat shoes, but that only made her all the more tempting. His gaze traced down her body, over her full breasts and along her trim waist to nudge at the secret spot between her legs. Did she really think it was hidden by the dowdy skirt she wore?

      ‘A dancer,’ he murmured under his breath. Now wasn’t that interesting? ‘Is she any good?’ His gaze hadn’t left that private spot. He could practically feel her lush, innocent pussy opening up to him, taking him deep. She’d be tight.

      Would she be wet?

      ‘Not our type of dancing,’ Remy replied, ‘but she can move – although she seems to have given it up since moving back to work at her father’s church.’

      Bas’s mouth watered. Now wasn’t that a shame? He could see that sensual body filling out a ballerina’s leotard, her breasts stretching the fabric tight. His palms tingled, thinking of those trim hips rolling and her hair flying around her shoulders. He could hear her breaths panting as her legs flexed and her toes pointed tight.

      He’d known there had to be an outlet for her frustration, because, whether she knew it or not, that was one frustrated woman. It radiated all the way across the street and through a security feed. She looked so buttoned up and tied down. She showed up every day at her father’s side, but her expression always seemed calm СКАЧАТЬ